


I Run With Horses

by SebasuchansKitten



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: avant-garde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:13:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebasuchansKitten/pseuds/SebasuchansKitten
Summary: I remember halting to look up at the sky, and screaming. My vocal chords strained as I roared and weeped, crying out and damning the sky for making everything seem so alive when I wasn't. I cursed the deep blue for not being as somber as I was, for not being dead inside. For not reflecting me. I cried for hours, but no matter what, it wouldn't change.





	I Run With Horses

**Author's Note:**

> Basically all rambling and no sense.

The concept of life is too twisted for me to comprehend.

I used to doodle -- albeit terribly -- depictions of zombies when I was still attending school. Since then, my definition of a walking corpse has varied greatly.

New York City is a very big place, and yet so very small. If you've ever considered visiting, don't. It doesn't have the "second chance" that you're looking for. It's not a much needed change, and it won't help you reevaluate your life. New York City is full of people all traveling the same way, and yet never traveling anywhere at all. Its amazing "tourist attractions" are simply lit up signs trying to persuade you to hand over those worthless little slips of paper in your pocket that you and everyone else are convinced are worth something.

New York City is a lonely place. Some people, I've overheard, even believe it's the loneliest place on Earth. The loneliest places are often the most populated. You'll pass so many people on a daily basis: mothers, fathers, widows, sociopaths. You'll meet them all without ever knowing their name. Names are a figment, anyway. A proof of concept to differ one person from another. Names don't matter, because you'll likely forget them in the end. People migrate, disperse, and their names follow like silent, complacent shadows.

I have known a great many people. I knew of the balding man in a brown suit with a crooked nose. I knew the woman in a green skirt with a purple blouse and black shoes, whose hair either hadn't been washed or chose to be greasy. I knew of the blonde mother, dragging around her equally blond son, telling him repeatedly to hurry up, rather than expressing how much she loved him. I knew them all for a few seconds. I knew many more, too. Then they all faded away.

I wondered, often, how many people I knew who had died since. I contemplated if the balding man in a brown suit with a crooked nose had committed suicide over the loss of a loved one. I wondered if the woman in the green skirt, purple blouse, and black shoes discovered that she had cancer, and no matter how hard she fought the devastating news, the inevitable had happened. I wondered if, in her coffin, she wore an equally mismatched outfit on the last day her body would ever feel the warmth of the sun. I wondered if they washed her hair. Even so, I wondered if it looked greasy.

I considered the blonde mother and son, who looked so very identical to each other. I pondered if the mother, who seemed in such a rush, rushed at the wrong place at the wrong time. I wondered if, in that case, her son cried every night, asking the heavens why she couldn't have just slowed down for once; why she was more preoccupied with being in a hurry than her son's well-being and happiness. I wondered if he'd grow up to look just like her, and if his eventual children would inherit the strong genes his mother had. Or, I wondered, perhaps he refused to have children, for he couldn't bear the sight of seeing a reincarnation of his mother he loved so much yet lost so soon.

Everyone I knew, I wondered about eventually. Eventually, they were forgotten about, replaced with new faces and new people. But I wondered about them all.

I also wondered what they thought about me. Surely, they thought along the same lines of each other. I was a boy who could remember strangers' faces easier than I could recall the last time I showered. The vertebrae in my spine outnumbered the various occasions I had received a decent haircut, one that didn't require me bartering aluminum cans for a one time use of rusty scissors that struggled to hack off the matted clumps I had for hair. They all probably thought the same thing about me. I thought it, too.

I had slept on the same bench in the same park for years. I remembered little details no one else would give a second thought to. At one time, my flesh would stick to the bench like an adhesive due to the coat of paint that remained fresh on the wood for months. Sleeping was easier once the freshness, along with the stickiness, went away. Now, the amount of visible wood was greater than the scattered splotches of paint that once covered the entire seat. Time had its way of wearing things down. Like everything else, this bench was no exception.

I had been chased out of the park numerous times by the police; people with homes tended to have vendettas against people who don't for some reason, and it led to cruelty. Thankfully, there always seemed to be enough crime to momentarily take the targets off of our backs and onto someone else's. When there wasn't, I went without sleep. Evidently, I'd return to my resting place one way or the other.

When it rained, a lot of us would take shelter under large trees. It didn't prevent us from getting wet, but it did prevent us from getting soaked. Hail and snow were different stories. Hail hurt, and when it snowed it could get so extremely cold. My plan of action, when it got to that point, was to sleep in closed dumpsters until it passed. I had still suffered nerve and joint damage throughout the years, but somehow had miraculously survived.

Hail came out of nowhere. One minute, drizzling, the next, chunks of hardened ice crystals were pelting my entire body. I had to abandon the bench that was inconveniently out in the open, and my first thought was to take shelter under a tree. Trees, however, as large as they can get, aren't invincible, and the solid white bricks falling from the sky tore through fragile leaves and branches ferociously. My bloodshot eyes, looking this way and that, saw that everyone on the streets were sprinting wildly now, seeking reprieve from the harsh weather. It was an amazing sight to me, seeing people scrambling this way and that, possibly feeling as hopeless as I felt every day. As many people as I had known, it still surprised me that there was ever the possibility that they felt the same things I felt. It was unlikely, but possible. And knowing the possibility that they could feel what I felt at some point as they traversed through life feeling many things left me feeling queer.

I was running. I didn't know how, when, or why. One minute I was still, in the park, the next I was sprinting as though my life depended on it, shoving past crowds of people who were shoving past others with equal determination. The many neon lights lit up the night, but they made it hard to see. They glared off your eyesight menacingly, making little disorienting orbs of light dot your vision. I tripped, I stumbled. But I kept running. I left lights behind me as more popped up in front of me. I left those behind. And the next ones. And the next ones.

A small storefront with an old wooden sign that stretched across the top of the building met the corner of my eye. _Madame Cimarron_ was scrolled across the sign fancily in black stain that was perhaps once vivid in its lifespan, but now chipped and cracked. The building appeared dark inside, for the curtains were all drawn but no light peeked from behind the corners. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself at the front door, body slamming my right shoulder into the wood, and, to my surprise, it flew open.

I landed on the floor, my entire right side taking the blow. The wind from outside sucked the wooden door closed, and when I looked up, I saw a heavyweight woman sitting behind a round table, a crystal ball resting in the middle of a square, multicolored tablecloth that was draped over it. Her skin was very dark and she wore a turban decorated with a variety of jewels. Her exposed arms were lined with many different bangles, and a great many necklaces hung from her neck and laid against the soft neckline of a very vibrant, flowy dress.

When she spoke, her accent reminded me of Jamaican, but it was also rich and deep as if tainted by many different cultures. I had never heard anything like it, and it made understanding her very difficult. "In a hurry to getcha fortune told, are ya?"

I made it up to my feet, my dumb eyes staring into hers. "That's fake."

"Escuse me?" She challenged. "Now what right do ya got to be bargin' in here, tellin' me my job is fake on my poperty?"

I remained there, unmoving, and she did the same. She must've seen something in me, for she sighed, and began waving me over. "Come here, come here. Whatcha name, boy?"

"Names don't matter."

"I know dey don't, but I gotta call ya someting. Do you really tink I was born Madame Cimarron? I earned that name, you know."

I walked over without thinking, sitting myself down in the chair across from her. "Ciel."

"Ciel? I don't tink I've ever 'eard that name," her hands ran over the glass ball in front of her, painted talons scraping at the surface. "Well, Meesta Ciel, whetha you believe it or not, I tink there's a good reason you were brought to me."

I stayed silent.

"You've seen many tings, Ciel. Dead man's eyes."

I felt confused, but I wasn't sure if my expression revealed it.

"A descendent of Nadine, no doubt," she mused. I didn't have to ask.

"You see, Ciel, I don't tell people what dey want to 'ear. I tell dem tings dey don't even know.

"When I was a young girl, I didn't have a ting to my name. No mutha, no fatha, no nothin'. People very, very spiritual where I come from. Me and a small group of others followed teachings of Fatha Saffron.

"He taught us tings most people don't tink about. No Gods, no preachings, all spirits. Spirits of many tings. He named da spirits, but dey don't have names. Names don't matta," she reiterated, pointing a finger at me.

"He told us that with many spirit come many souls. Different soul attract different spirit."

She glanced down at her ball, then back to me to make sure I was paying attention, then back to the ball. Her hands splayed out in wispy gestures.

"Free souls, no problems, belong to Aterra. Dey pave paths for temselves."

Her hands suddenly locked together fiercely. "Some souls are bound. More accustomed to sadness, less free. Dey attract Nadine. Bad tings happen to these souls. Dey must break the bond. Must find their own freedom. Mental illness don't exist dere. Only different perspectives."

I blinked. Everything sounded so foreign, I didn't know how to process it. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she knew exactly what she was talking about. She went on all night, and eventually I dozed off in the chair. I woke up a few times, and when I did, she was still mumbling.

She asked to come with me to the park the next morning. I didn't answer either way, so she followed. We sat on the bench, watching various people walk by.

"You see dat man, Meesta Ciel?" Madame Cimarron pointed at a gentleman ordering from a food truck. "He'll have diarrhea by tonight, just you wait." She then pointed to a woman walking hand-in-hand blissfully with who I assumed was her lover. "Them, Meesta Ciel? It won't last. Whetha cheatin' or death, they'll be separated soon enough. Dat child?" She pointed again. "He'll lose his parents, and toys, and everyting he holds dear eventually. But look around, Meesta Ciel."

Madame Cimarron gestured around her. "Look at the sky, tell me whatcha see."

I looked up at the same sky I had seen my entire life. "Clouds. Blue. And the sun."

"And what do you see at night, Meesta Ciel?"

"Stars, sometimes. Or clouds."

"Diarrhea, relationships, lives. Dey don't last forever, Meesta Ciel. Everyting dies, everyting changes." She put her hand on my shoulder. "But those tings never change. There's so much more out dere, Ciel. So much bigga than love or death or money. Tings dat never change. Tings dat matta more than the life that's been established for us."

Madame Cimarron gave me money to stay in a hotel for a night, and we parted ways. I didn't know what to feel. I felt as if my body and life didn't keep me drawn to the ground anymore. I wasn't sure if this was spiritualism. I wasn't sure I liked it.

That night, I ran with horses in my dreams. We traversed a never-ending meadow full of lively flowers and lush grass. The sky was blue, dotted only with the whitest, plushest clouds.

I felt free. But I wasn't happy. In fact, I felt the same way I always felt. I remember halting to look up at the sky, and screaming. My vocal chords strained as I roared and weeped, crying out and damning the sky for making everything seem so alive when I wasn't. I cursed the deep blue for not being as somber as I was, for not being dead inside. For not reflecting _me._  I cried for hours, but no matter what, it wouldn't change.

I woke up very early the next morning. I washed my clothes in the bathtub with shampoo and I watched as the filth coated the once spotless porcelain.

Once I was done, I redressed. And once I redressed, I punched the bathroom mirror as hard as I could with my fist until it shattered. Glass went everywhere.

I tore the curtains from the window, I threw the TV remote at the wall, plastic breaking and batteries hitting the floor.

I thrashed until the manager broke into my room, and after seeing the mess, threw me out onto the street. I ran in case he informed police.

I ran back to the park after what felt like hours. I stumbled over to my bench, taking note of the exposed wood and the scratched-off paint that was once new. I looked at my knuckles, bruised and bloody, a complete change from yesterday. And then I gazed at the sky, whose blue looked no different and whose clouds, now with a little gray mixed in, remained the same as always. And the sun, the ever-present sun, was doing what the sun did best. It hadn't changed.

It was a new day.


End file.
